For a moment after the single shot, there was a deathly stillness in the room and in that moment Frank and Jack almost reached the door. Almost but not quite. At a far end of the room a match flared up. Frank, who had now drawn his revolver from his pocket, raised it quickly and fired again. The match went out.
But this second shot had betrayed the lads’ new position to the other occupants of the room. A terrific roar went up and several revolvers cracked sharply.
But Frank and Jack had been too quick for the others. Immediately Frank had fired, both had dropped to the floor. Then rising they sailed into the crowd of Russians before them with their hands, striking out right and left.
It was in this kind of fighting that Jack showed up best. Though his wits were no quicker than Frank’s, his courage no greater, his blows were heavier and his weight bore all before it.
Quicker than it takes to tell it he had cleared a passage to the door, and reaching back, he grabbed Frank by the arm and pulled him through after him. Unfortunately, the door closed the wrong way, so he could not close it after him.
“Run!” he cried.
Frank needed no urging and darted after his chum, at the same time crying out:
“Look out for the steps, Jack!”
But Jack did not need this warning. Always observant, he had measured the distance from the steps to the door as he entered, and now he drew in the darkness a scant three paces from the steps. He felt for them with his foot.
“All right,” he said to Frank, who had stopped when he collided with his friend. “Fifteen steps down, then run to the left.”